


Plasticity

by RerumTechnologies



Category: Original Work
Genre: Classism, Evil Corporations, F/F, Genocidal Lesbian, Interracial Relationship, Lesbian Character of Color, Mass Death, Mind Control, Not a Love Story, Protests, Racism, Racist Language, Science Fiction, Slavery, Terrorism, Violence, helping hands, selling your body
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:34:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26685232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RerumTechnologies/pseuds/RerumTechnologies
Summary: In 2166, you can erase your mind for a paycheck.In the 22nd century, a person down on their luck can go to their local Helping Hands Recruitment Center and apply to be a Hand. Their memories, personality, and will are wiped or suppressed, making them susceptible to suggestion. These Hands make the perfect workers; everything from fast-food servers to child caretakers. Since their invention, Hands have lowered crime rates, increased productivity inevery field, allowed jobs to stay open that were headed toward automation, and give people and their families a steady paycheck.But a rise in protests and rallies against Helping Hands Inc. has raised certain questions.Do we have the right to erase human beings?Are Hands even human?What are our responsibilities when we know something is unjust?
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	Plasticity

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so I wrote this for a class like over a year ago and it wasn't written with the current BLM protests in mind. Originally, my motive behind it was to encourage us to not only think about poverty and the choices a person’s socioeconomic status can force them to make, but also to explore the questions of what makes us human. Most importantly to get us to ask ourselves what our role is when we are aware of a larger social injustice. If we know something to be wrong, what then are our responsibilities? 
> 
> Please be warned this does contain some racist derogatory language.

The first time MiMi glitched, Emma was five years old.

MiMi was tucking her into bed, performing the ritual that Mother had walked her through on her first day four years ago. “Covers up to her chin, tuck along her sides, and read her a story. Only one.” MiMi had pulled the covers up to Emma’s chin, tucked her in, and was in the middle of reading _What Was I Scared Of?_ when it happened.

MiMi read only a little bit better than the computer, her voice unemotional and relentless as though the story might never have an ending. When the end of the book came, it always sounded abrupt like the end of an amateur holo. So, when MiMi stopped reading, Emma didn’t notice at first that anything was wrong.

But then MiMi’s breathing hitched on an intake before quickening unevenly. Emma opened her eyes to find her Hand staring at her. Emma was surprised to find that MiMi’s eyes were brown like hers.

“Who’re you?” MiMi asked, and it wasn’t in her normal voice. This voice was louder, it wobbled in the air, and the vowels stretched and dipped.

Emma sat up in bed. “What’s wrong with your voice?”

“Nothin’. This is just how I talk.”

“No, you don’t,” Emma told her, frowning when MiMi put the book down. “MiMi, you’ll lose our place. Keep going.”

MiMi glanced down at the book then back to Emma. Her eyes were still wide, and her hands were shaking as though she were cold. She swallowed once and said, “Tell you what, I’ll keep readin’ if you answer three questions.”

“Why?” Hands weren’t supposed to ask questions. Emma didn’t know they _could_ ask questions.

MiMi’s eyes narrowed like Emma’s mother’s did when she was rude, “Because I said so. Now, what’s your name?”

“Emma.”

She smiled, wrinkled mouth stretching lopsidedly, not at all like it was supposed to. “That’s a nice name. I’m Mikayla.”

“Nuh-uh. You’re MiMi.”

MiMi laughed softly, “That’s my Hand abbreviation. My real name is Mikayla Miller.”

“From before you were a Hand.”

“Yes. Next question, what’s today?”

“Wednesday.”

“No, what’s the date?”

Emma sighed, “I turned five last week so it’s August. Can we read now?”

“One more question. Where are we?”

Emma knew this one, her mother had drilled their address into Emma’s mind just in case she ever got lost. “11608 Apple Hill Road, West Hartford, Connecticut in the green house. Can we read _now_?”

MiMi didn’t look very good. In fact, she looked as sick as Mother had been when she’d gotten the flu. But MiMi picked up the book again and started at the beginning. Emma decided she liked this voice much better for reading stories. It brought the words to life, exclaimed the surprises and softened the scares. Emma couldn’t fall asleep to a voice like that. Instead, she forced herself to watch MiMi read, which was almost as entertaining as listening. MiMi’s brown eyes showed a lot more than the silvery ones. Instead of reflecting the lamplight like a cat’s, they lit up from the inside, turning the color of sunlit cola. When she was done MiMi asked if she wanted another.

Emma stared at her. “You’re not allowed to read me another one.”

MiMi looked at the clock, then the door, then back to Emma. Her eyes weren’t wide open anymore, and her wrinkles nearly hid the wink.

“It’ll be our lil’ secret.”

They read one more, and by the end of it, Emma was yawning and struggling to pay attention. She didn’t want to miss MiMi’s new storytelling.

In the morning, MiMi woke her up as usual. They had breakfast together, and later when nap time came around, she asked if MiMi could read using the better voice, but all MiMi did was smile her normal even smile and say, “I’m sorry, Miss Emma, I don’t know what you mean,” in her relentlessly normal tone.

Falling asleep was easy.

...

MiMi glitched again when she was six, and they were walking through the grocery store. Emma had to tell Mikayla the date again – which she knew for sure this time, because they said it every day in class – and tell her where they were and what they were doing.

That day Emma learned Mikayla was from Louisiana. She had a son in college.

“He’s gotta’ve graduated by now!”

“What’s he going to be when he grows up?”

Mikayla put a box of pasta in the cart, “He wanted to be a doctor ever since he was little. But school’s expensive, so I had to – to come work for your parents.”

“That’s why you became a Hand,” Emma said. “We learned all about Hands in class. They’re important to saucety.”

“Society,” Mikayla said and turned away.

MiMi was back to normal by the time they got home.

...

The glitches kept coming, for longer and longer each time. When Emma was seven MiMi glitched three times in one year. One time it was at Christmas dinner in front of Emma’s parents. Emma actually saw it happen. MiMi stood with their other Hand against the dining room wall across from Emma and behind her mother, smiling vacantly with her dead silver eyes staring at nothing. One second she was fine and then it was like her strings were cut. Her shoulders sagged with the returned knowledge of age, her silver eyes flickered once, twice, before succumbing to the brown. Confusion and panic flashed across her face until she caught Emma’s eye. Mikayla mustered up a smile and winked.

“What are you staring at, Emma?” Her mother asked, bringing Emma’s attention back to the table.

“Mikayla.”

Her father shoots her a serious look, “You’re a little old for an imaginary friend.”

“She’s not imaginary, she’s–” Emma began but was interrupted by Mikayla, coming around to refill Emma’s water glass.

“More water, Miss Emma?” Her voice wasn’t wobbly or accented but it didn’t sound like a computer either. It sounded like someone playing at being a computer. Emma frowned at her.

Emma’s mother sighed. “They get like that towards the end, I’ve heard,” she said to her father, “Some pieces of code fall apart, and they start forgetting rules. Arthur, you may have to take her in to get reprogrammed, our lease is supposed to last until Emma is in middle school. MiMi go stand with MiSt, do not interrupt.”

“Yes, Ma–”

“They charge extra for reprogramming.” Emma’s father said, as though Mikayla hadn’t spoken, “If we see any more problems, I’ll take her in for a replacement instead. The first one is free.”

“You’d think it’d be the other way around, wouldn’t you?”

“No, actually, it’s quite fascinating. The programming is the expensive bit, lots of technology to put into one head, you know. The Hands themselves are a dime a dozen but the wiping is a very delicate procedure if you want it done properly, otherwise, you’d end up with one of those basic construction Hands.”

Emma’s mother rolls her eyes fondly, “It was a rhetorical question, Arthur, I’m not one of your students. I don’t need a lecture.”

Later, when Mikayla was brushing her hair before bed, Emma asked, “Why did you act normal? Why didn’t you talk to them?”

Mikayla sighed. She turned Emma around and kneeled down, so they were eye-to-eye. “Your parents can’t know ‘bout me, Emma.”

“How come?”

“Because they’d have to give me back to the Rental Center if they knew I was glitchin’. I wouldn’t be able to come back. And I need to pay for Michael’s school. Remember I told you ‘bout Michael?”

“You said he’s going to be a doctor.”

“That’s right. And he can’t be a doctor if I can’t help him pay for school. That’s why your parents can’t know ‘bout my glitches, alright? Promise me?”

Mikayla stared at her until Emma nodded, “Promise.”

“You’re a good girl, Emma” Mikayla pressed wrinkled, weathered lips to her forehead before she got back to her hair.

“So,” she said, dragging the word out in a way that was distinctly Mikayla and not MiMi, “What book d’ya wanna read tonight?”

...

On her eighth birthday, MiMi glitched the entire day and told her stories about New Orleans and her family while Emma’s parents were at work. She told her about her husband who’d been in the army, her son when he was her age, and the computer courses she took in school before she quit.

“I was one of the best coders my teacher ever saw. Told me so herself. Wanted to be a software developer for some big company somewhere. But that was takin’ too long and didn’t make enough money at the start to pay for Mikey’s schoolin’.” Mikayla held out her stirring spoon. They were both at the stove making gumbo. Emma had to kneel on a chair to see inside the pot. “It’s gon’ be hot, watch your mouth.”

Emma took a sip from the spoon, fire burst along her tongue and her eyes watered from the heat. She sipped some more. Licking her lips so they burned too, she asked, “Can I meet Mikey? Can we com him?”

Mikayla stared into the pot for a long moment, just stirring and staring. Emma thought she might have gone back to normal but finally, she said, “No sweetheart, we can’t.”

...

On the first day of fourth grade, MiMi broke for good.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise, but it was. And it wasn’t anything like the glitches when Mikayla’s memory would come and go in fits and bursts like she was waking up from sleep and would just drift off again. It was scary when MiMi broke.

Even though Emma was nine, MiMi still walked her to school. They were crossing the street when MiMi shuddered to a stop.

Emma looked up at her with a smile, opening her mouth to tell her the date, where they were, what they were doing. But Mikayla was staring straight ahead, eyes flickering silver and brown like a broken screen. Her mouth was hanging open, but she wasn’t trying to talk. Her old wrinkly hands gripped Emma’s too tightly, rubbing the bones together. The whole thing made Emma’s skin crawl. Mikayla’s grey bun started shedding wisps of hair into her eyes as Mikayla began to shake. Her hands clenched tighter, and Emma cried out, trying to pull away.

“Ow! Mikayla, that hurts! Mikayla! Mikayla, let go!”

But then Mikayla crumpled, taking Emma with her, making her scrape her knees on the asphalt. Mikayla landed on her side with one arm caught under her body. Her lips opened and closed, but no sound came out. Emma was crying now, and her nose was running as she took wet hitching breaths.

“Mikayla? Mikayla get up! You have to get up!” Emma looks up and around at all the houses on the street. People were beginning to open their doors. “Mikayla, get up!”

But Mikayla wouldn’t move, she laid on the ground and gripped Emma’s hand too tightly and drooled while Emma sobbed.

}{

Emma met Bentley Fernández when she was sixteen.

She’d joined Students Against Helping Hands without her parents knowing. It took three months of her ghosting through the hallways, making more acquaintances than friends, and staring at the blue posters that decorated the stairwells to gather up enough courage to attend a meeting.

At a school like West Hartford Prep, there weren’t many students who were interested in SAHH. Hands were a part of their everyday life. Hands cleaned their houses, took care of them when they were little, drove them to school, and served them in the cafeteria. So, it wasn’t much of a surprise to find only four people arranged in a circle in the reserved classroom.

Everyone turned to stare at her as she hovered in the doorway.

“Is this Students Against Helping Hands?” she asked, even though she already knew.

A moment of silence before a boy with an undercut jumped up to pull another desk into their circle, “Yeah, sorry, we just weren’t expecting anyone else.”

“We weren’t expecting a white girl,” the black girl said, smirking.

Emma blinked as she sat down between the two boys, “Why not? Twenty-two percent of Hands are white.”

The girl opened her mouth when the first boy decided to interrupt.

“I’m Bentley Fernández,” he said, taking his seat again and pointing at the girl who’d spoken, “She’s Sarena Watts.” He pointed at the smallest girl, “June Nguyen,” and to the last boy on Emma’s right, “and Daniel Santángel.”

“Nice to meet you,” June smiled.

“Sarena’s right though,” Daniel said, “Only the scholarship cases join SAHH. Why’re you here?”

Emma shrugged, “I don’t agree with what Helping Hands is doing. I think it’s wrong. I think it’s cruel.”

“It’s murder,” Sarena said with finality, “Helping Hands is purporting murder as socially acceptable.”

“But it’s also temporary, and with the bad comes a lot of good for the community,” June began ticking off fingers, “Hands boost the economy, lower crime rates, provide a consistent pay check to the Hands or their family, and increase productivity in every field, and allow jobs to stay open that were originally headed toward automation. Not to mention the nearly airtight job security Hands have.”

“So instead of losing jobs, we’re losing people?” Bentley asked, but he sounded like he was reading off a script like they went over this same argument all the time.

“ _Temporarily_ ,” June stressed.

“It doesn’t matter how temporary it is,” Sarena insisted. “They’re erasing human beings for profit. It’s inhumane.”

The conversation continued like that for another few minutes, all of them going in circles while Emma watched. Then Daniel made a joke about one of the AP Calculus teachers and the debate devolved into casual conversation.

Emma learned that Daniel and Sarena were juniors, June was a sophomore, and Bentley was a freshman like her. Bentley had joined the first week of school. Bentley’s father had been a mechanic running a chop shop in Bridgeport before he’d gotten caught and sentenced to ten years.

“Which means state-mandated wiping,” Bentley shrugged without looking up from where his hands were fidgeting on the desk, “At least he doesn’t have to live through it, you know? They say it’s terrible, living in gen pop.”

“I’ve heard some people ask for sentences for at least ten years just so they don’t have to go to federal prison,” June put in.

“Really?” Emma’s brow furrowed, “They ask for more time?”

Daniel shrugged, “They figure losing ten years or more is worse than living in prison for nine.”

“It’s insane,” Sarena ran a hand over the gold bands in her dreadlocks, “It’s insane that the longer sentence of giving up rights to your body is more desirable than serving your sentence as an autonomous human being.”

Emma left the meeting feeling odd. They hadn’t really done much of anything besides talk, but she was lighter somehow. A little less tense and constricted.

...

After that first meeting, Emma suddenly saw the other SAHH members everywhere.

Bentley had the same lunch period as her. They ended up in the library more often than not. Emma would trade some of the food from her homemade lunch with Bentley’s scholarship meal. Every Tuesday the school served mac n’ cheese and Bentley would trade the whole thing for Emma’s salmon and asparagus. They talked about holos and books as well as SAHH. They almost ended up late for class more than once.

Sarena and David were in homerooms near hers and so they usually ended up meeting up somewhere between the parking lot and their classrooms. They’d walk together and Emma would listen to Sarena complain about this or that while David teased her.

June had a free period at the end of the day and usually spent it outside on the bleachers while she waited for the bell to ring. Emma’s PhysEd teacher liked to make them run or walk the track on their days outside, resulting in Emma jogging past June multiple times a day.

Just before winter break, Bentley invited her home for studying, dinner, and movies.

That night she met Mrs Fernández for the first time as she and Bentley are sprawled on the couch watching the Harry Potter reboot series.

Bentley’s mother came in, hair dishevelled and bag slipping off her shoulder to thump onto the floor. She was wearing blue scrubs and tennis shoes. She toed them off on her way over to the couch, leaving them in a haphazard trail.

“Buenos noches, mijo.” She said tiredly, leaning over the back of the couch to plant a kiss on Bentley’s forehead. She must have just caught sight of Emma tucked under blankets at the other end. She smiled, “Oh, I’m sorry. You must be Emma, Bentley told me you’d be coming over.”

To Emma’s surprise, Mrs Fernández came around the couch and gave her a light hug. Emma stared up at her as she walked away.

“Have you two eaten, already? How do you feel about leftover Chinese? I think we still have some General Tso’s chicken.”

...

Sophomore year brought a new member to SAHH. Her name was Teigan Valentine.

It was clear from the very first meeting that Teigan and Sarena had very different ideas about Helping Hands.

“The idea is alright, it’s just the execution that is immoral,” Teigan argued, missing the cue every other member usually took to avoid an argument with Sarena.

The next day, Sarena sat right next to Emma in their shared AP World History class and proceeded to tell her exactly why everything Teigan had said during the meeting was wrong.

“There were a dozen or so rebellions against the Roman Empire,” their teacher was explaining, “But one woman remains a folk hero to this day for her deeds in battle. After she and her daughters were raped by invading forces Queen Boudicca of the Celtic Iceni tribe vowed revenge.”

“And did you hear her talking about peaceful protests? Unbelievable. As if–”

“She united many local tribes against the Roman Empire and took three cities back from the Romans in 60 A.D., including Londinium – modern-day London.”

“I suppose we can’t kick her out though, can we?” Sarena sighed and sat back in defeat.

“However, she was later outnumbered in the West Midlands and summarily defeated. It’s rumored that she poisoned herself to avoid capture. Others say her men turned on her and killed her.”

...

In April, homeroom teachers handed out the forms to decide class schedules for the next year.

Emma scanned the list. Computer Programming caught her eye almost immediately. She thought of those days with Mikayla, the stories she’d tell about her computer classes, and smiled.

...

Choosing programming was the best thing she’d ever done, Emma decided.

Only two weeks in and she was sailing through the coursework. Computers were simple to her, the rules easily followed and sometimes broken. She quickly garnered the attention of Ms Ashton, the instructor.

“Wonderful job, Emma. You’re a natural. One of the best coders I’ve seen.”

Emma ducked her head to hide the embarrassing rush of tears that sprang to her eyes.

...

During the last half of junior year, Bentley and Emma spent their Friday nights applying to colleges.

Well, for the first three Fridays Bentley applied to his top three choices and for the rest of the Fridays all the way up until May he hung around Emma’s bedroom as she systematically applied to all of the Ivy League schools her parents had on the shortlist as well as MIT.

Her coding class was by far her favorite. Ms Ashton had long since given up on trying to keep Emma with the class and instead had begun assigning her more and more difficult projects. During midterms, she told Emma to hack a program that Ms Ashton herself wrote and point out the errors. At the end of the assignment, Ms Ashton congratulated her on a job well done and told her to sign it.

“Sign it?”

“All great artists sign their work. Coders and programmers do too. Handles, codenames. Go ahead.”

Emma thought for a moment, staring at the blinking cursor for a moment. After another moment, she typed, _boudicca_.

“Ms Ashton,” she said, her thoughts racing ahead to what books she’d have to find and which forums she’d have to trawl. “What do you know about Hand programming?”

...

Senior year brought acceptance letters.

Bentley received his Notre Dame letter two weeks before Emma opened her mailbox to find a thick envelope from MIT. She was officially going to get her degree in computer programming and Bentley was headed to Illinois for film.

They celebrated with movies and popcorn and by breaking into Mrs Fernández’s stash of tequila. The next morning, when Mrs Fernández found them groaning on the couch, she decided to take pity on them and made them tostadas and café con leche.

Bentley was quiet over breakfast, something that Emma attributed to Jose Cuervo. But just as Mrs Fernández was sitting down to eat her own food, he spoke to his plate.

“I want to apply for a temporary deprogramming for Dad.”

Emma lifted her head from her arms to stare at him. Mrs Fernández didn’t even look up from her tostadas.

“Mamá, hablo en serio. Just for my graduation.”

She sighed and fixed him with a sad smile, “We’ll try mijo, but no promises. You know how difficult it is to get a temporary deprogramming. Tío Enrico only ever got one when tu bisabuelo died. Deaths and marriages, that’s what usually gets the judges to agree.”

“But we’ll try?”

Emma suddenly wanted to be somewhere else. For the first time, she felt like an outsider in the Fernández home.

“We’ll try.”

...

It was months later, only a week away from graduation when Emma’s link buzzed at five in the morning on a Saturday.

“They rejected us.”

Emma tried to wake up faster. Bentley’s voice was wet and heavy with tears. “They? What? Hold on a second.” She rolled up and out of bed, attempting to force her brain to boot up. Then it hit her. “Oh. Oh, I’m so sorry, Ben.” Her voice sounded weak and fake to her ears. What else could she say to him?

“I can’t believe they won’t even let him go to his only son’s graduation.” There was anger as well as grief coloring his voice, making his words thicker. “He’s going to wake up and I’ll be nearly done with college. He won’t even know who I am. I wish I could just check in with him, you know?”

Something was caught in her throat, and Emma knew what it was. She held it back for a second, but it all came out anyway in one rushed breath. She told Bentley about the first time MiMi glitched, the last and every time in between, everything she’d learned about Hand programming, and her hopes about what she might be able to do given enough time.

“I think there’s a way to force a glitch for a controlled amount of time without hurting the Hand. Obviously, it’s been proven that old age makes the programming less effective and that seizures, electricity and other kinds of physical trauma can cause a glitch but I’m thinking there might be a way to glitch them temporarily from a distance.” She sucked in a breath when the avalanche of words came to an end, waiting for him to respond.

After minutes of silence, he finally whispered, “How far have you gotten?”

“Gotten?”

“Can you glitch them? At all?”

“Well, I could if I could find the frequency the chips are on and then hack through their firewall,” Emma rubbed her forehead, “But I’m a first-rate amateur compared to the coders at Helping Hands, Bentley. Maybe I could if I was standing right next to the Hand, use more blunt force than precision, but I still wouldn’t know how long the glitch would be for or if it’d be temporary at all.”

“But what if you could stand right next to them? I know what construction site my dad is assigned to. We could get as close as we want!”

Emma’s voice grew harsh, “What would that do? If he asks for a feed on the graduation, they’ll know he’s glitching. They’ll just wipe him again. And that’s if he thinks to ask.” She remembered MiMi’s first glitch. She’d been panicked, terrified. Imagine if she’d been surrounded by strange adults? It’d been fine in the quiet of Emma’s childhood bedroom with the glow-in-the-dark star stickers on the ceiling and the pink bedspread, but if she’d been outside that first time? If she’d been driving or if she’d been serving at one of her parent’s cocktail parties? “You’d have to tell him where he is, who you are, what day it is. I’ve seen a Hand glitch, Ben, and they have no idea what’s going on. They’re terrified. It might be better to just leave him where he is. You’ll have the holo when he gets deprogrammed in another four years.”

A thud that sounded like Bentley had thrown something at a wall, “You’re not even going to try?!”

“Not if it’s going to cause more harm than good.” Emma said calmly, one hand over her eyes like she could block out the conversation, “Not when I know that I’d be getting you and him and me into trouble!”

“Of course, you’re just thinking of yourself,” he spat, “You’re so damned selfish, Emma.”

“Selfish!?”

“You don’t have anyone who’s been wiped. You don’t understand. Can you even imagine what he’s going to feel when he’s deprogrammed? Do you even care? He’ll have missed everything, Emma. How are we going to get through that? He won’t even recognize me!”

“And what?” Emma asked, voice starting out calm, but as she spoke her words got sharper and louder until she was practically yelling into her link, “You think it’ll be easier if he gets out and you’re working a constructions site with silver eyes and a stupid fucking smile on your face because you and your best friend got caught trespassing, tampering with a Hand, and aiding the escape of a state prisoner!?”

The silence from her link was deafening in its intensity, broken only by Emma’s harsh breaths. Regret immediately welled up within her and pounded in her head like the beginnings of a headache.

“Bentley–”

He hung up on her.

...

Emma didn’t see Bentley until after graduation. She watched him walk across the stage with the other F’s. He didn’t look out into the crowd, but she thought he could feel her eyes on him. She didn’t regret saying no to him, but she knew she’d been harsh.

In the parking lot, she caught sight of him, his mother, and what seemed to be a hundred relatives standing around their beat-up Volkswagen. She made her excuses to her parents – who were much too busy speaking with her grandparents anyway – and wound her way through the parked cars toward them.

Mrs Fernández saw her first and called her over, “Emma! You look beautiful, mija!” When Emma reached them, Mrs Fernández drew her into a hug. “Oh, I’m just so proud of you both. I’m just sorry Jerome couldn’t be here.” Emma did not look at Bentley as his mother turned them both toward the Fernández crowd. “¡Todos! Esta es Emma, la amiga de Bentley.”

A chorus of “¡Hola!” and “¡Felicitaciones!” rang out before they all went back to their conversations. Bentley scuffed his shoe on the asphalt.

“Thank you, Mrs Fernández,” Emma said, smiling, “I just wanted to come say goodbye. I’ll be heading to Cambridge on Monday. I’m going to be taking summer classes.”

“Ah! So soon! I wish we could have you over for dinner tonight, Bentley’s abuela is making empanadas from scratch.” Mrs Fernández kissed her on the cheek and hugged her again, “Good luck, mija. Have fun and stay safe.” Bentley’s mother left them alone, yelling at the sea of Fernandez relatives to get in their cars.

Emma stood awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot. After a moment of silence, Bentley sighed like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. “You were right.”

Emma gave him a sad smile, “I know.”

He laughed, “You’re supposed to say, ‘I’m sorry for yelling at you, Bentley, I was a complete ass.’”

“I am sorry for yelling at you.”

He rolled his eyes, “That’s better,” then he drew her into a hug. “You were an ass, but I was an idiot. So, I guess we’re even.”

She laughed too and squeezed him a bit tighter before letting go. “I really do have to go. There’s a cocktail party at my house tonight and I’m the guest of honor.”

“Com me when you get to MIT, will you?”

“Of course, I will. When do you head to Notre Dame?”

“Two weeks, their summer classes start late.”

“Com me when you get there too?”

“You got it.” Just then, Mrs Fernández honked her horn. Bentley twisted around to glare at her before turning back with a roll of his eyes, “Tonight is going to be hell.”

“Want to switch?”

He grimaced, “Not for any amount of money.” He kissed her on the cheek and gave her a final hug. “Don’t forget to com me!” he called to her as he climbed into his car.

Emma waved goodbye, feeling much lighter than she had moments before.

“Miss Emma.”

She turned to find MiSt waiting for her; silver eyes empty and smile vacant. For a second, Mikayla’s absence was visceral and harsh despite the nine years. In that second, Emma hated those silver eyes with every fibre of her being. She wanted to reach out and crush them like grapes. Erase that silvery film forever.

“Your mother sent me to get you. She says you need to get ready for your party tonight.”

Then that second was gone. Emma nodded and stepped past MiSt without a word.

}{

Emma fell in love when she was twenty-one.

Her undergrad years at MIT were challenging and fast-paced. The professors were unforgiving and the courses exhilarating. She barely had time to look up from her computer. It seemed as though she’d blinked, and suddenly she was a grad student with an acceptance letter from MIT’s Masters-PhD program and an internship at Intel’s Boston branch.

Though school kept her busy, she had made friends through SAHH again. Even though the organization was much larger than it had been at West Hartford, her circle was small, but Emma had found she preferred it that way.

Violetta Sato’s mother had been a domestic Hand, paying for Vi’s aerospace engineering degree with a fifteen-year lease. She’d finished when Vi had turned seventeen, just in time to see her off to college. Kurtis Dunn had been a Hand foster child, growing up in one of their many foster homes while his parents finished their twenty-year lease. They would be deprogrammed shortly after he turned twenty-two. Findlay and Angelica Seymour’s had an older brother that was serving a twelve-year sentence as a state-mandated public service Hand.

She’d met more people at the rallies and protests they organized, people both for and against Helping Hands. Some just wanted Hand rights changed. Some wanted to outlaw the practice entirely.

Emma didn’t meet Adilah at the march that day in February. They met at the bar where most of Emma’s friends had ended up afterwards, signs and posters taking up chairs and the spaces between their knees.

Emma had been sent up to the bar to order the next round of drinks. She was watching the bartender mix Vi’s cocktail when she felt someone sidle up next to her.

“They make it look so artistic. You never get the same performance with a Hand bartender.”

Emma looked over and down at the brunette. When the woman smiled at her, Emma’s mouth went a bit dry. “It’s, uh, it’s the only bar in Cambridge that doesn’t use any Hands.”

The woman brushed thick hair out of her face, “Really? I didn’t know that. Were you at the march today?”

“Yes,” Emma said. She was a full head taller than the woman and the difference in their heights made her feel like she was looming. She cleared her throat, “I’m Emma,” she stuck out her hand, feeling for all the world like a bumbling moron.

The smile only grew as they shook hands, “Adilah. Do you come here often then, Emma?” Adilah giggled, “Ignore the cliché.”

“I do, actually. I’m in the doctoral program at MIT. It’s pretty close to campus, so my friends and I end up here more often than not.” At that moment the bartender came back with Vi’s drink.

Adilah ordered her own drink and turned back to Emma, “I’m at Boston University myself, history. You’re allowed to laugh.”

“Why would I laugh?” Emma asked, juggling three beers in one hand and Vi’s cocktail in the other. “I can barely remember what day it is usually. I think studying history is pretty brave.”

A pleased look warmed Adilah’s eyes further. She leaned in, “Are you here with friends, Emma?”

Emma looked back toward her friends, finding them all staring at her and Adilah. Findlay was even on his feet to get a better look over the heads of other patrons. She narrowed her eyes at them. Vi gave her a thumbs up before she tugged Findlay back down into his seat.

Emma remembered that Adilah was waiting for an answer. She turned back with an apology on the tip of her tongue, but Adilah was already laughing. “I’ll take that as a yes. I’ll let them have you back, I guess. On one condition.” Emma was beginning to feel overheated as Adilah leaned in even farther. She wasn’t sure how someone so small could be so intimidating.

“Um,” she said intelligently.

“Give me your number?”

...

The following month was possibly the best of Emma’s life.

They had coffee at a shop near Adilah’s campus every week. They talked about books and holos and politics. Adilah took her to the Harvard Natural History Museum, not minding in the slightest when Emma only managed to look interested for the first hour. She responded to Emma’s rants on coding and programming with “I completely agree,” or “There’s no other way to see it,” which always made Emma laugh. Emma told her about Mikayla and her research. Adilah told her about her parents.

They’d come to America from Afghanistan near the end of the Global War. They’d come to give Adilah a better life. The only option it seemed was Helping Hands. They’d died when Adilah was in high school. A fire had burnt down the home where they’d been assigned together. Adilah had joined SAHH the next year.

A month after she met Adilah, Emma commed Bentley berating herself for getting so caught up in this new thing she had with Adilah, however wonderfully consuming it was.

He didn’t pick up.

She tried his link again but switched to his mother’s when no one answered. She picked up on the first ring.

“Emma?”

“Mrs Fernández! I can’t get a hold of Bentley, is everything alright?”

Mrs Fernández’s voice turned sad and hollow. “Oh, mija. He’s gone.”

The bottom of her stomach dropped away. “Gone?” she asked stupidly, “Gone where?”

Bentley had been wiped and programmed. Five years to pay for her medical bills.

She’d had to have heart surgery, Mrs Fernández told her. A very expensive procedure that their insurance didn’t cover.

“They told us we’d have to prove we could pay the money upfront, so Bentley signed a five-year contract.” Mrs Fernández’s words were broken by hiccoughing sobs.

“Is there… Is there anything I can do?” She asked, still staring in shock at the bland walls of her apartment. “Isn’t there? I have money. My parents have money, we could have helped.”

“No, mija, you know we wouldn’t have taken it. It’s going to be alright.”

“I didn’t even get to say goodbye,” Emma whispered, tears finally stinging her eyes.

Adilah found her like that, huddled on her floor where she’d sunken to her knees, link in hand, sobbing. She gathered Emma up and moved her to the couch, curling around her to wait out the tears. In between heaving breaths, she told Adilah what had happened.

“I know,” Emma sniffed after what seemed like hours, “I know he’s not gone, but – God, Addy, five years? Who knows what could happen before then?”

Adilah kissed her forehead, “We’ll be there when he gets out. We’ll wait for him.”

Emma pressed her face into Adilah’s neck, breathing in slowly.

She would wait for him.

...

In her darkest moments, Emma wondered if she’d traded her happiness for her friends’ wellbeing.

She got the com on a Sunday afternoon, just as she was getting to the elevator to head home. She answered without looking to see who it was, assuming it was Addy, “Hey, I was just thinking I don’t feel like cooking tonight, should I grab Indian or Afghan?”

“Emma? It’s Violetta.” Vi’s voice was low and urgent.

Emma stepped into the elevator, lowering her voice and her eyes to avoid the glares of the other passengers, “Vi? What’s wrong?”

“I fucked up, Em. I’m at the police station. I’ve been arrested.”

“Arrested!?” A few people glanced her way, alarmed. Emma ignored them.

“I was at a protest and I – Christ – I was stupid, Em. I wasn’t thinking–!”

“I know, Vi. Where are you? What station are you at?”

“I don’t know, somewhere near the City Hall? The rally was right outside. Just a march, you know? Nothing crazy. Oh God, I was so dumb, but it was _justified_.”

“Okay, Vi, I believe you. I’m on my way. See if you can ask an officer where you are okay? Just find out where you are.” While she spoke, Em pulled up the nav on her com, tapped City Hall and then texted Adilah to let her know what was going on. Adilah’d had some friends in the law school at BU. Maybe she could get someone to help them out.

“Al-alright,” Violetta said shakily and moved away from the phone. Emma could hear voices but was distracted by the dinging of the elevator doors. She pushed herself out first, ignoring the indignant curses and yells coming from behind her as she dashed for her car.

Vi came back on the line, “Em? 40 Sudbury Street. Please hurry.”

“I’m already on my way, Vi. What happened? Why did they arrest you?” Emma’s tires screeched when she pulled out of the parking lot and headed for the freeway. She didn’t ask why Vi hadn’t called a lawyer. It wasn’t like she or her mother could afford one.

“I – I hit a police officer.” Anger and embarrassment colored her voice, “I know it was stupid, but he was just – God, he was like one of those rednecks you see in old holos. He called me a fucking _chink._ ” Em sucked in a breath at the 21st-century slur. “I thought they had psych tests for that! He told me to do something useful and go check into a Recruitment Center.”

“And then you punched him?” Emma thumped her head back against her headrest.

“No, Angelica got between us, he shoved her down, and then I punched him.”

Emma’s laugh was hysterical and ended in a groan, “Vi, damn it.”

“I know! I know, I shouldn’t have done it. This is going to kill my mother,” Vi sucked in a shuddering breath, “They’re telling me to get off the phone, hurry Em.”

“Don’t worry.”

By the time Adilah arrived at the police station, Emma had already paid Vi’s bail with one of the credit cards her mother had given to her for tuition and books and had never bothered to take back. She was waiting in one of the uncomfortable chairs by the front desk when Addy came in.

“Em, where’s Vi?” She asked, gathering Emma into her arms. Emma released a quick stuttering breath into her neck before answering.

“She’ll be coming out soon, they just have to set up an arraignment date.”

“It’ll be fine, I’m still friends with Adam Plainsman from undergrad, he may not be a lawyer yet, but I bet he’ll have someone better than a public defender he can recommend.” Addy pulled back to push some of Emma’s hair out of her face. “From what I could find, the worst she would get is a few years in prison, and that’s if they decide not to fine her. She’ll probably get a year in jail and bill. And come on, this is _Vi_ , she probably didn’t even hit him that hard. It’ll be fine.”

It was not fine.

They attended Violetta’s arraignment with her the next week and her court date months after that in August. Angelica and Findlay came as well, and Angelica acted as a witness in Vi’s favor. In the end, however, Violetta had punched a police officer in the jaw, splitting his lip and giving him a concussion, and she was aware that he was a police officer at the time.

“She got off easy,” Missy Levelle, the lawyer Adilah’s friend had recommended, told them afterwards, as they watched Vi hugged her mother and the rest of their friends. “At five years you have to volunteer to be a Hand, she just has to keep her head down, so she doesn’t increase her sentence.”

“Right. Easy,” Emma said, staring at Chiyoko Sato covering her eyes to hide her tears. Her lips were pressed in a thin hard line, but they held firm. Emma couldn’t tell if Mrs Sato was angry or sad. Probably both. Parents were complicated like that.

“Thanks, Em,” Vi said as she finished up her goodbye’s. “Seriously, I’ll pay you back for the bail and the lawyer.” Her smile was teasing but her eyes were scared.

Addy’s hand found Emma’s back and, coincidentally, Emma found her resolve. She smiled at Violetta, “Don’t worry about it, Vi. It’s fine. It’ll be fine.”

...

It was at a protest in December, that Emma met her first Fist member.

Thay was unwavering in his beliefs and calmly certain in the way he discussed them with her. He talked about taking more drastic measures against Helping Hands.

“Steps need to be taken before they do away with the façade entirely. The conglomerates have Senators and Governors in their pockets, what’s to stop them from pushing for more Hand-happy laws? Right now, it’s prisoners with ten-year sentences, but they can easily make that five, or anyone caught ‘disturbing the peace.’ Hell, they’ve already made it look like the more desirable option in the prison system,” Thay gestured openly with his beer bottle.

Emma nodded, “Wipe your memories and become obedient servants. You’ll lose years of your life, you won’t know who you are anymore, you won’t know what was done to your body but at least you’ll have a nice lump sum at the end of it all.”

“Something has to be done,” Thay said, eyeing her to gauge her reaction.

“Everybody talks about wanting to change things and help and fix, but ultimately all you can do is fix yourself,” Emma told her bottle, “Which is a bit depressing when you think about it.”

“Whoever said anything about changing the world?” He teased, “I’m just talking about saving it.”

She laughed, “Oh, is that all?”

They talked for hours until Adilah sent her a message asking if she’d be home in time for dinner.

“I’m part of this group,” Thay said as they pulled on their coats, “They’re like SAHH, but a little more active. More immediate. You should come to one of our meetings.”

Emma agreed and they exchanged numbers.

That weekend, Emma made her excuses to Adilah and headed southwest toward Allston. The meeting was held in the basement of a community centre there.

Before Emma could open the door, a familiar voice called out to her.

“Emma?”

She turned to see Sarena Watts strolling down the street toward her, hair up in a halo of riotous curls instead of hanging down to her waist as it had been in high school.

“Emma Landry!” she grinned.

“Sarena! What are you doing here?”

“I live here, dumbass,” Sarena answered and threw her arms around Emma in a quick hug. “It’s good to see you, are you here for the meeting?”

“I am.”

“Well, come on, then.”

Walking into the meeting was like walking into the West Hartford SAHH meeting for the first time. All eyes turned toward her and Sarena. Thay got up with a smile. “Emma, glad you could make it!” He gestured to the two people sitting in chairs, “This is Diana and Aimon, and it seems as though you know Sarena.”

“We went to high school together, actually,” Emma looked to Sarena, “Is Daniel coming too?”

Her face shut down, mouth turning into a hard line, “Daniel was wiped two years ago. Student debt. He’ll be back in three.”

Emma placed a hand on her arm, “I’m so sorry, Sarena.” Sarena shrugged it off, sitting down in one of the chairs that’d been set out.

They all sat in a loose circle. It reminded Emma of AA meetings she’d seen in holos. They talked about much of the same issues Emma and her SAHH friends discussed but the tone was different. There was a greater call to action in their voices, a greater need to do something substantial.

They just didn’t know how.

Emma left the meeting with Sarena’s new link number and her mind turned back to the research she’d begun in high school. She hadn’t thought about it since her fight with Bentley. Just thinking about him brought anger, impotent and useless, bubbling in her chest.

That same hatred she’d felt in the parking lot of her high school graduation came back. The urge to rip something apart. And now, she thought she might know how.

...

Emma and Adilah were walking back from the restaurant when they saw the man hit the girl.

They’d been celebrating. Adilah had finally gotten a position at Harvard Natural History Museum and was full to bursting with smiles and excitement. “You should have seen the place, Em. I can’t wait to start working. I’ve already met some of the other archivists. Seth Kaye and Kymani Fisher. They both graduated from Harvard, actually. They were so nice, Em. They wanted to invite me out for drinks, but I told them I couldn’t stand you up.”

Emma couldn’t stop grinning at Adilah as she talked a mile a minute. It was only because she was looking that way already, that she caught the quick flash of skin and the sharp crack of a slap.

“Stay here,” she said to Adilah, cutting her off mid-sentence. She stormed across the empty street before Addy could answer. “Hey!” she yelled.

The man turned to look at her with a frown of polite confusion. “May I help you?” He asked looking for all the world like he couldn’t understand why a tall angry woman would be striding across the road toward him. As she got closer it became clear why.

The girl had to be over eighteen, but her size made her seem years younger. There were ugly bruises all along her arms and around her neck in various stages of healing. Her eyes were silver, and her lips were curved in a gentle smile.

The man still had a hold of her by one arm. “You can’t hit her like that,” Emma said, pulling out her link, “I’m calling the police.”

His face shifted from politely curious to indignant, “The police? You can’t be serious.” He rolled his eyes and let go of the girl to reach into a coat pocket. “This is why I always keep a copy of her papers on me. People cannot keep their noses out of someone else’s business. Here.” He thrust a set of folded papers at her.

They were a pair. One was a copy of his lease agreement for AmWi and the other was a Hand contract signed by Amaya Wilkes which stated that she would allow “hitting, whipping, and paddling as long as the Hand is not seriously damaged.”

“This is wrong,” Emma insisted. “And how do I know these aren’t fake papers?”

“This is ridiculous. I’m not going to stand here and be harangued by the likes of you.”

“Emma,” Adilah said from behind her, “Emma let’s just go home.”

Just then her link connected to the dispatcher, “911, what is the state of your emergency?”

“There’s a man here and he’s been hitting a girl. She’s got bruises on her arms and neck.” While the man blustered and complained, Emma gave the woman on her link their location.

“A car is in the area and will be with you in just a minute Ms Landry. Please do not hang up until they get there.”

She did wait until the police arrived. When they did, she gave them the papers and explained what she’d seen, Adilah standing slightly behind her the entire time, fidgeting. The officer typed the Hand’s information into her pad.

After a few moments, the officer turned to the man, “Mr Sandoval, I’m sorry for the inconvenience. You’re free to go now. Have a nice night.”

Emma stepped forward to stop him again, but Adilah grabbed her arm, “You’ve got to be kidding me!? He’s hitting her! You’re just going to let him go!?”

“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to calm down,” The officer put out one staying hand, the other resting on her taser. “And take a step back.”

“Why are you letting him go? What he’s doing is inhumane!”

The officer put both hands on her belt and levelled Emma with a look of stern disapproval, “Ms Landry, Mr Sandoval has all of his papers in order. AmWi is legally his personal Hand for the past year and will remain in his employment for the next four. Now, I’m not going to write this up, but I will have to give you a warning.”

“Are you serious?” Emma gaped, distantly feeling Addy rub her back in calming circles.

“Ms Landry-”

“It’s _Dr_ Landry,” Emma ground out, reminding herself of her father all of a sudden.

The officer’s eyes narrowed, but she went on, “Dr Landry, reporting a false emergency is a serious infraction. Don’t let it happen again. I suggest you go home and forget about this whole thing.” The officer tipped her head to them both, “I hope you two have a nice rest of the night.”

When they got home, Emma sat down at the kitchen table and opened her computer without speaking. She felt Adilah’s eyes on her, but she didn’t say anything either. Emma heard her sigh and the bedroom door shut as she went to bed.

Emma opened the file she hadn’t touched since high school. The code was good for a beginner, though incredibly basic for what she’d been trying to do all those years ago. She’d been too focused on remote glitching, too focused on her own problems, on her immediate surroundings.

She needed to think big picture.

...

Two months after the incident, Emma went to another Fist meeting.

“I’ve been working on this thing since high school, and I did it. I finally did it,” she was on the edge of her chair, gesturing wildly and vaguely thinking about how crazed she must look right now, with her blonde hair half-falling from its bun and the dark circles under her eyes. “I know how to glitch the Hands.” She took a deep breath, “I know how to break them out of their programming and remove the memory block without physical trauma. I can glitch the Hands without hurting them. I know it works and I think we can use it to start doing something.”

Thay leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, “How many can you affect at once?”

Emma grinned, “If I can get to the data banks at the Rental Center? Any Hand that was programmed there.”

“Holy shit,” Aimon breathed.

“Emma’s right, we can use this,” Sarena got up and began to pace, “If we can do this often enough, teach others how to do it across the country – hell, across the world – we could ruin Helping Hands. No one would ever trust them again, with their tech glitching all the time.”

Diana ran a hand through her hair, “OK, let’s say Emma can glitch them all. What’s to stop Helping Hands or the police from finding us?”

“It’ll just be me they’d be looking for. One programmer.” Emma said, “And I can throw them off, lead them away. They’re always looking at Asia and the Middle East for enemies. I can leave them breadcrumbs.”

“Are we actually thinking about doing this?” Aimon asked, looking around at them all.

Thay was staring at Emma. “I’m not going to force anyone to help, but I’m in.”

“Me too,” Sarena said immediately.

Diana hesitated, “Only if you’re sure, Emma. This is huge.”

“I’m sure,” she said, “Trust me.”

Aimon nodded, “Alright, we’re going to need a plan if we’re breaking into the Center. We need to figure out what their security is like and where the data banks are.”

...

Aimon’s foot was tapping against the floorboards in the backseat of Thay’s car, “Did you know there are eighty-five words for murder?”

“No,” Sarena said.

“I was looking it up. There’s homicide, suicide, genocide, patricide, fratricide, abortici-.”

Sarena spoke without looking up from the map, “Which one means is death by being thrown out of a moving car?”

“Well, if you threw me out of the window, that’d be ‘defenestrate.’”

Emma tried to focus on the road. Eighty-five words for murder. She wondered if there was one for Violetta. Or Bentley. Murder by erasure.

“I’m just saying,” Aimon sucked in a shuddering breath, “We should consider the kind of murder we’re committing here. Because people are going to die. A lot of people.”

“Compared to all the people they’ve killed?” Sarena glared, “The lives they’ve taken? It’s a little too late to back out now, Aimon.” A month and four meetings too late. They’d talked this over for hours.

“I’m just saying. That’s a lot of red on our hands.”

“Not yours,” Emma said, still keeping her eyes on the road, “Just mine.”

Thay took one hand off the wheel to squeeze her shoulder, “Just theirs.”

Breaking into the Helping Hands Massachusetts Rental Center was surprisingly easy.

Sarena led the way to the data banks. She’d come in the week before on a tour of their facilities, acting the nervous first-time customer.

“We have to go through the showroom,” she said, “It’s almost too easy to find. They took me right to the door.” She lifted her voice to a higher pitch, “ _You keep them all right out here in the open? That seems very risky. What about their programming? Is that in a safe place? Oh, would you show me? I’d feel much better if I could see it._ ”

No one cracked a smile. With the amount of tension in the air, Emma thought that might be enough to break them.

The showroom, Emma discovered, was a large square room with Hands lining the walls. There were two help desks in the middle, to assist buyers with their leases. The Helping Hands logo was everywhere, even on the simple white shirts and trousers each Hand was dressed in.

None of their eyes were open, and mouths that were usually curved in empty smiles were slack in unconsciousness. Emma wondered if they dreamed.

“They say it’s like falling asleep. Like, you just fade out and wake up years later in a body you don’t recognize,” Aimon whispered, looking up at the corpse-like face of a sleeping Hand whose hair was greying at his temples.

Diana was staring sadly a female Hand, “I heard it’s like being shot in the head, you’re just wiped out between one thought and the next.” She shuddered, “Bastards.”

They left the showroom quickly after that.

When they got to the data banks it was all very anticlimactic. No one was patrolling that floor. There were very few cameras to avoid. Emma simply plugged into one of the ports and sent her sleeper code into the system. She left her signature at the end of it, in a line of code no one should check and even if they did, _boudicca_ could have been a glitch.

“Five o’clock?” Sarena checked.

“Five o’clock.”

As they left, Emma reset the alarm and locked the door.

...

Despite the lack of sleep, Emma was buzzing with nervous energy the next day.

Over breakfast, she said, “Let me drive you to work today.” The busses weren’t safe.

Adilah smiled sleepily, “I do love it when you spoil me.”

They left at seven-thirty. Emma kissed Adilah goodbye at seven forty-two.

At five o’clock exactly, chaos erupted.

From her window, Emma could hear shrieks of terror and squeals of tires. A distant boom of something large falling reverberated through the air. Buses crashed in the street below, helicopters veered through the air, and hundreds of Hands flooded the street. Some were violent as they came out of their programming and some were simply confused. Prisoners took their chance to escape.

The city fell apart and thousands died, and Emma didn’t see any of it.

She stood by her door, waiting exactly ten minutes before she wrenched it open and began comming Adilah.

No one answered. She left a message telling Addy to stay, don’t move, she was coming to get her, just stay there.

Emma didn’t bother getting her car from the garage, she began to run as soon as she hit the sidewalk. Vehicles were everywhere. Two blocks to her left she caught a brief glimpse of something smouldering in a twisted heap of wrecked metal. She ignored it.

She ignored everything until she’d sprinted to the Harvard Natural History Museum and up the steps. Seth Kaye was in the crowd of people standing behind the doors. They looked like zombies with their mouths hanging open in horrified shock and tear tracks down their face. Seth was clutching the bottom half of his face as though he trying to force his own mouth shut. When he saw her, he pushed the door open.

“Emma,” he said brokenly, “Emma, she’s gone.”

It was like Bentley all over again. The world dipped and weaved; Emma was barely able to stay upright as she leaned against the door.

“No.”

“Emma, she took the bus. She wanted to – she said she wanted to surprise you, she…” He began to cry.

“No.” She insisted. She turned around and began to run again. She commed Adilah nonstop until her link was full of messages and she couldn’t leave any more.

...

Adilah wasn’t gone. She was at Cambridge Hospital.

She’d probably wanted to stop by that Spanish restaurant Emma loved. She had taken the 47 Broadway bus. The Hand driving it had glitched and they’d listed into oncoming traffic. The bus flipped. Adilah had ended up pinned under the seats. EMTs hadn’t gotten to her in time, there were so many other accidents.

After dashing through the halls of Cambridge Hospital checking every bed and every room for a glimpse of her, Emma was sweaty and dishevelled, and her face was wet with tears and snot and blood. She wasn’t sure when she cut her cheek, but she could taste the iron of it.

She found Addy in minutes, but they were the longest of her life.

The doctor she had stopped with a firm, painful grip, explained Adilah’s condition in clipped tones and then jerked her arm free to keep running down the hall.

Adilah’s throat had been sliced by a piece of twisted metal. Her voice box was shredded. Her throat would heal but she’d never speak again and the scarring – the scarring would probably never fade completely.

Emma stood in the doorway. Adilah wasn’t alone in the room – there were too many injured for that – but the man and the young girl were asleep or drugged or something. Adilah’s eyes were the only ones open. They were foggy with drugs and pain, but she smiled when she saw her. She lifted a hand, and Emma was selfish enough to take it. She collapsed into the chair next to Addy’s bed and sobbed.

She was going to tell her. Emma couldn’t let Adilah sit there with the person who had done this to her. She couldn’t let Adilah love her without knowing she would never speak again was because Emma had taken it too far, had believed that the ends justified the means.

The worst part was Emma still believed it. Self-loathing churned in her gut, but she couldn’t make herself regret what she’d done. She wished so badly for Adilah to have been safe, to have stayed at work and _waited_ for her but – she just – she couldn’t make herself feel–.

“I love you,” she said through her hitching, wet breaths. “I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry.”

Adilah’s hand pulled her face up so Emma could see her expression. _It’s okay_ , Emma thought it said, _I love you too_.

“It’s not okay,” she answered. “It’s all my fault. I – I did this. But I… I-” For the first time, terrible and awesome guilt took hold of her chest, and Emma found her voice. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, but I had to. You have to underst- I had to, Addy.”

She tried to memorize that look of trust and love. It was a look Emma must have seen often but never noticed before. Something that she had taken for granted. Emma was staring so hard into Adilah’s eyes that she saw the exact moment when trust curdled and became betrayal. She saw when love clouded with fear.

If she had to pick one thing to love about Adilah it was that the woman felt so deeply. Something Emma had always seemed to have trouble with. She connected so easily with everyone, made friends everywhere because she gave her whole being into feeling.

Dazedly, Emma realized that until that moment – Adilah ripping her hand from Emma’s grasp. Emma scrambling back, ducking as Adilah threw the glass that had been on her bedside table. Emma’s last view of her; Adilah scrabbling at the call button, machines going wild with her panic, and Addy’s eyes on her – she’d never seen Adilah hate before.

...

Emma didn’t know how long she sat at the hospital. When Adilah forced her out of her room, a nurse had led her to a waiting room on the first floor. The nurse left her there with a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

She watched with numb fascination as people wailed and cried and clutched at each other. They crowded the desk and demanded information. Emma stood, sweaty and tired, with one hand still clutching her link.

It had been ringing nonstop for a long time. Sometimes it was Mrs Fernández, sometimes her friends from SAHH, some messages from the Fist, and one was from her parents.

Why couldn’t she feel something for these people? For the parents and children and partners? Her heart beat wildly and painfully at the thought of Adilah, alone in her room, but it was steady when she looked at the chaos surrounding her. She felt sad but she wasn’t… sorry.

A bloody little boy caught her eye. He was maybe five or six. There was a bloody gash above one eyebrow and the blood had covered his face like half a mask. It had dried to an ugly brown that smeared where his tears had tried to wash it away. He wasn’t crying now. He was just standing there, like her.

Sometime after someone found the boy standing there, realised he needed help and took him away, Emma got up and walked out. She was supposed to be laying a false lead right now. Protecting herself so that they could do this again.

The walk home seemed to take no time at all.

Emma opened her apartment door and stared at her computer sitting innocuously on their dining room table. She was supposed to be making sure no one found out that this – that Adilah’s – was all her fault. She was supposed to be leading the police away from her, away from Adilah.

But what was the point now? Now that Adilah wouldn’t be coming back to her. She didn’t have anyone else, with Bentley gone. Thay had her code. He could do more with it. He could find someone else to help him save the world.

Emma walked past her computer and straight into their bedroom. She stripped down to her bra and underwear before pulling on Adilah’s BU sweatshirt and climbing into their bed on Adilah’s side. She pushed her face into Adilah’s pillow and blocked out everything. It took her a long time to fall asleep.

...

Many hours later Emma barely stirred to the banging on her door. It thundered through her apartment and just emphasized the fact that it was empty. That it would be empty from now on. She curled up tighter, Adilah’s pillow clutched to her chest.

She didn’t even flinch when the banging turned to a splintering clatter and hulking figures in Kevlar vests swarmed her room. They yelled at her, words she couldn’t begin to decipher through the ringing in her ears.

After a minute, hands yanked her forcibly from the warmth of their bed. She landed painfully on the rug one arm twisted beneath her. The hands yanked her again, into the air this time.

They handcuffed her and led her out of the room – the building – in a daze. Someone must have given Emma her Miranda Rights, but she didn’t hear a word. Between one blink and the next, she found herself in the back of a police cruiser and pulling away from her building.

Emma was taken to an interrogation room where a man in a suit asked her question after question. She couldn’t hear him very well and didn’t try very hard to understand.

The ringing had turned to cotton.

A lawyer was assigned to her. She asked one questions and when Emma didn’t answer, she didn’t speak again.

Emma couldn’t blame her.

Emma was moved from the police station to a correctional facility outside the city. The women she passed yelled and hollered and reached through the bars at her.

She never met any of their eyes.

They put her in a cell by herself and didn’t let her back out again.

Her trial came nearly a month after Adilah threw her out of her room. The road they took into Boston was lined with crosses and flowers, doors were painted with the Star of David and the Ahimsa Hand, and white fabric flew from every window.

Emma turned away to stare at her hands. They were clean but the nails were too short and picked so raw they were red as blood.

“This is the arraignment for Massachusetts v. Landry. Dr Landry, you are charged with the first-degree murder of three thousand seven hundred fifty-eight people. How do you plead?”

Emma licked her lips, cleared her throat. Her mouth felt dry and swollen. When was the last time she spoke? She told the judge what she wanted to hear.

“Guilty.”

The judge nodded as though Emma were making the right decision. “Will you admit to the court any accomplices that aided you in your crime?”

Emma blinked, mind chugging and turning over like an early millennium computer. The Fist… Thay, Sarena and the others had to keep saving the world. Emma wasn’t strong enough for that, but she could do this.

“No, I – I acted alone.”

}{

Emma was twenty-three when she threw away everything.

Now she’s sitting back in a programming chair staring at a white ceiling. Her wrists, knees, ankles, and waist are all tied down with padded restraints. It’s nice. Secure.

For some reason, her mind takes her back to that night years and years ago when Mikayla glitched for the very first time. It doesn’t feel like the soft blanket she’d had, but the sure tightness of them remind her how she used to feel when MiMi would tuck her in; like she was being strapped down for bed.

Emma remembers the panic in Mikayla’s eyes that first night. In fact, at that moment she can remember every single time Mikayla glitched and the look on her face in the seconds before Emma talked to her. Before she told her where she was and what she was doing and why she was there.

She wonders if Violetta had been as scared yesterday. She’d probably woken up in a place she didn’t know surrounded by strangers. Emma wonders if she’d been one of the three thousand seven hundred fifty-eight people who’d died in the mass glitch.

The programmer standing at her right is glaring a hole in the side of her head. Emma wonders briefly if someone he loved died because of her. Probably. Three thousand seven hundred fifty-eight are good chances.

The blinds on the window in front of her begin to lift slowly, drawing her from her thoughts. A room full of sombre bureaucrats and reporters stare down their noses at her. She notices her parents aren’t there.

It’s better this way, she thinks. They’ve never been there for anything truly important.

She can’t help but search for Adilah even though she knows she wouldn’t come.

It’s better this way.

The programmer never stops glaring, but he does speak to her at some unknown signal, “Emma Landry, you have been sentenced to life and subsequent permanent Hand status by the state of Massachusetts for the mass murder of three thousand seven hundred fifty-eight people on March the fifteenth two thousand one hundred sixty-six. I would like to give you this opportunity to make a statement before we proceed with your sentence.”

Emma thinks of Adilah. Her absence sits on her chest like a physical weight, crushing her heart and making it difficult to speak.

“Just do it,” she says. Her voice is scratchy and emotionless despite the churning in her stomach. “Just kill me already.”

She closes her eyes against the bright, sterile room and the people who sit behind the glass and watch with justified, righteous looks on their faces. She blocks out the sound and feel of the programmer fitting the metal gear over her head to hold her still.

All at once Emma is tired. She just wants it all to go away. She doesn’t want to feel guilty for not feeling sorry. She doesn’t want to think about Adilah or the Fist. She doesn’t want to think of Violetta who is probably dead in a hospital somewhere with their friends crying over her body. She doesn’t want to think of Bentley or his father or Mikayla breaking in the middle of the street while Emma screams for her to get up. She just wants it all to-

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so this was supposed to be the first in a four-part story where we look at four different individuals decisions when they experience  
> wrongs against Hands and against their families, much like we're shown injustices around the world via the news and internet. They witness the crueller, less politically correct side of the Hands’ lives just as we are made aware of corporations' acts of selfishness and greed. They struggle with the urge to help but see no viable or no immediate solution. We donate to causes, like and share posts, and write to our politicians with no visible change. These four stories were supposed to be an effort to make us aware of this stagnant cycle, and encourage us to do more; to find out if we could break it.
> 
> (The four perspectives were going to be Emma as The Murderer, Michael (Mikayla's son) as The Witness, Thay as The Revolutionist, and Adilah as The Survivor.)
> 
> Not sure if I'll ever get around to finishing this, but I thought I'd throw it up somewhere. If you wanna yell at me find me on tumblr.
> 
> Now that you're done reading this depressing shit, go enjoy some happy OTPs and fluffy AUs!


End file.
